as the sorg-gok, uttering 'sorrow,' or floated The 

 out of the east as the troste-gok, calling ' con- Cuckoo's 

 solation ' ? When Finland loses her, and the 

 Baltic peasant no more counts with dread the 

 broken cries, and she has passed from the Irish 

 valleys, so that men and women are safe for 

 another year from the wildness of wild love, 

 whither is she gone ? Like a dream her voice 

 fades from Broceliande, is heard no more by 

 Fontarabia, has no echo in the wood of Vallom- 

 brosa. In the last reaches of the Danube she 

 no longer mocks love ; above the Siberian 

 steppe the exile no more hears her ironic Go 1 

 Go ! : from the dim Campagna she is lifted 

 into silence, sospir d amove : she is not heard 

 across the waters of Corinth from that fallen 

 temple where Zeus took her form upon him, 

 nor is the shadow of her wings in that wild 

 mountain-valley of Mykenai, where Agamemnon 

 and Clytaimnestra sleep, where once the marble 

 statue of divine Hera stood bearing on a 

 sceptre her perilous image. Where, then, is 

 she gone, she who from the dim Asian valleys 

 to the Aztec wilderness, from one world to 

 another, is the mysterious voice of wandering 

 love ; she who is, in one place, to be hailed 

 with hymns of gladness, in another to be 

 hearkened to with bowed head or averted eyes ? 

 For thus it is, even to-day, among the ancient 



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